For whom do you write?
(I wanted that to say 'who do you write for,' but I don't want you to think I don't know my grammar. Which is a teensy bit ironical, really.)I was invited to speak to the book club at my local library last night--they were reading Mary Modern--and someone wanted to know if my editor or publisher had asked me to remove the overly political bits, or if I ever considered doing so. She pointed out that I was potentially alienating half of my readership. I replied that my editor had said she expected I would be criticized for it, but she left it up to me. And I decided to keep it, I said, because taking it out would have been disingenuous. Mary Modern was written around the time of the 2004 election; it is a product of that era, and of who I was when I was 23 and 24. (Actually, I remember thinking I ought to follow my own character's advice--that life is too short for subtlety.) But more importantly, I write to please myself. I write the story I myself would want to read, and if you like it too, then I'm thrilled; and if you don't like it, well, what can I say--I'm not your circus monkey. (That's not to say the lady at the book club didn't have a good point to make; when readers say the novel's politics 'take the shine off somewhat,' I completely get that.)If you are thinking about your audience as you write, calculating your every word to please, flatter, shock, or elicit any other sort of reaction, then what you are making is not art--it is product.You write for you.
Hobberdy Dick
The moon had set, however, before they reached Stow churchyard, and found old Grim, playing a subdued and melancholy air upon the bones.Long ago, long before our great-grandfathers were born and before the ancient ways left our countryside, there was plenty of secret folk-life in England, particularly hobgoblins who guarded the houses and lands and watched over the families who lived in them, until their task was done and they were released. These hobgoblins were shy folk who stayed out of sight, but they were also determined and meddlesome creatures with strong likes and dislikes. Happy the human they took a fancy to, and woe betide anyone who crossed them.
Our eponymous hero is a hobgoblin bound to Widford Manor, and though the novel is set in the 17th century Dick has already been around for several hundred years. The plot centers on the kind young man of the house, Joel Widdison, and his romance with his stepmother's handmaid, Anne, who happens to be a gentlewoman of reduced circumstances (she's a relative of the manor's former owners, who were on the losing side in the Civil War). Of course Hobberdy Dick aids the young lovers any way he can, protecting Anne and all the rest of the servants from the ire of the ridiculous Mrs. Widdison and rescuing Joel's little sister from a witches' trap.As you might expect from that introductory bit, Briggs' prose sometimes feels rather didactic, but for a folk historian I guess it's somewhat hard to help; and the trade-off is, of course, the ancient superstitions and bygone traditions brought into vivid color by her passionate expertise. I particularly relished all the lovely little details in the Christmas chapter (despite the curious absence of semi-colons):
There must have been more than a score of people in the room, for convivial labourers had come from the farms round...Martha, Diligence, little Samuel, Ned the houseboy, Charity and half a dozen others were playing at hot cockles. Rachel, Maria Parminter and Nancy, the oldest of the maids, were roasting chestnuts and crabapples, the butler, Jonathon Fletcher, a grave, silent man, was brewing a bowl of lambswool in which the crabs were to float, a group of lads at the far end of the room were improvising clothes for the mumming play, George Batchford, with a cushion on his head to mark his rank as King of the Revels, was directing everyone, his usually gloomy and impassive face aglow with good humour, and the nips he had taken to quicken his spirits. Hobberdy Dick unperceived added his own ho! ho! ho! to the sound of merriment which went up from the place, and slipped into a dark corner beyond the fire, from which he could watch all that went on...
Their talk of dying had sent a pang through his heart, and he realized that he had never loved human beings as he loved these two.
We have a winner!
Guess how many entries there were? THREE. You pansies!
Brian, as an Eagle Scout.
I think I had said initially that I'd let you all vote, but there really is no contest here—Brian wins. Now that's what I call rockin' a unibrow.
And, as an extra-special bonus entry:
There are no words, only paroxysms of laughter.
How to find a literary agent
Every so often someone who's just finished their first novel contacts me to ask for tips on finding a literary agent. I suppose I can only really tell you how it worked for me, but I hope this will be helpful.1. Yes, you DO need an agent.
Junior agents are eager to build their own list, hungry for new talent, and as such are ready and willing to give you more time and attention than their bosses can--and yet they can draw on their older colleagues' experience. Best of both.5. Don't dwell on rejections.
Obsessed? Me?
My very own guardian owl. From Sealmaiden on Etsy.
—from Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, by Robert C. O'Brien.
"I understand," said the owl, moving closer to the round entrance of his hollow. "Mrs. Mouse, I cannot see you, for the glare of the daylight is too bright. But if you will step inside my house, I will listen to what you have to say."
Mrs. Frisby hesitated. She knew something of the dietary habits of owls...
Zig-zag baby quilt backing.
Spotted at the piano workshop.
In the back the walls narrowed to a corner, and there she saw that the owl had built himself a nest, as big as a water bucket, of twigs and leaves; from the top she could see protruding some wisps of the feathers with which he had lined it.
When she got near this nest, she stopped and faced the owl, who had turned from the light of the doorway and was peering at her with his great yellow eyes. Jeremy was nowhere to be seen. She could only hope he was still waiting on the limb outside.
"Now," said the owl, "you may state your problem."
Sheets from Garnet Hill (sadly, discontinued).
Edit: How could I have forgotten this? It's a juvenile snowy owl on the Northwest Passage (expedition link here). Photo by Dr. Michael Brogan.
Great Book #21: Heart of Darkness
It was written I should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice.I despise the N-word. It makes my skin crawl every time I hear it, no matter the context. I finished Heart of Darkness a few days ago, and I get that the book's about colonialism and capitalist greed and exploitation, and that a white man of that time period would likely speak that way, but did Conrad HAVE to drop that word on every other page?If you haven't read it, here's my condensed version: a white man named Marlow gets a job captaining a steamboat transporting hoards of ivory back from the African jungle, finds himself mesmerized by the completely corrupted ivory dealer Kurtz, and years later (back in England) he recounts the story to a group of amateur sailors who have expressed no interest whatsoever in hearing it. Marlow is a supremely irritating narrator partly for that reason ('Why do you sigh in this beastly way, somebody?' HAH!), but I have to admit that Conrad's prose often had me fumbling for my pen.
Going up that river was like traveling back to the earliest beginnings of the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees were kings. An empty stream, a great silence, an impenetrable forest. The air was warm, thick, heavy, sluggish. There was no joy in the brilliance of sunshine. The long stretches of the waterway ran on, deserted, into the gloom of overshadowed distances. On silvery sandbanks hippos and alligators sunned themselves side by side. The broadening waters flowed through a mob of wooded islands; you lost your way on that river as you would in a desert, and butted all day long against shoals, trying to find the channel, till you thought yourself bewitched and cut off for ever from everything you had known once—somewhere—far away—in another existence perhaps.
While the racism in this book ('they had faces like grotesque masks') repulsed me again and again, I wonder if it isn't rather small-minded to level that accusation on the author himself, as many critics have; but I suppose that basic distinction—between the narrator who grinningly tucks into her filet mignon, say, and the author who will never put her fork in a steak ever again—seems to fall by the wayside when the subject is this serious. At any rate, I understand why Paré hates this book with a red-hot fiery passion, and it's a relief to have it ticked off the list.(See my 100 Great Books list here.)
Midwest, part 2
(Continuing from part 1.)
From Madison I took a bus to Minneapolis to visit Jill for a few days. We went to see The 39 Steps at the Guthrie--really good fun!--and we went shopping at a pumpkin patch in the suburbs and carved it to look like this:
The Witch's Hat Tower.
(Funny that I said 'I shall never carve a jack-o-lantern ever, ever, ever again' after seeing this--Elliot carved it; brilliant, right?--when I haven't carved a pumpkin since I was a kid.)
I also did a reading and signing at Common Good Books on the 1st of November, which was fantastic--along with Jill and Walt, Maggie's brother Max and his wife Jillian came out, and there were three complete strangers, which up 'til now hasn't ever really happened. And they were the most enthusiastic complete strangers EVER. Lots of questions and discussion and I read two passages, one at the beginning and one at the end. It was really, really fun.
And I got to sign the door behind the desk!
(I'm in Scotland at the moment, having a marvelous time. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!)
the Paranormal Podcast
The Paranormal Podcast with Jim Harold (along with the Campfire) is one of my very favorites. Jim's guests run the gamut from ghost-hunters and psychics and reincarnation researchers to UFO experts and conspiracy theorists, and the podcast is always well worth a listen even if you're a hard-line skeptic. I think I've mentioned before how much I love Bob Curran's shows in particular (he's written books on zombies, vampires, and fairies in folklore--really fascinating stuff, not to mention incredibly inspiring for me as a fiction writer.) Anyway, I recorded a show with Jim last week and it's up today, so give it a listen! [Edit, 2013: Paranormal Podcast archives are available to Plus Club listeners only. Check out the Plus Club though, if you like the paranormal you'll find it a great value!]And in case you've found me through the podcast, I'll post some show notes of my own:My blog post on Keats' poem La Belle Dame Sans Merci is here.As for the dancing baby skeletons, you can find Mike McCormack's terrific novel Notes from a Coma on Amazon.com.The Petty Magic Cafepress shop is here [2013 edit: the shop is now closed], and here are some modeled shots:
(With my friend Niki.) 'Misbehave, and I'll feed you to the mermaids.'
(My sister Kate and her boyfriend Elliot.) 'I may not be all that picky, but I draw the line at the clap' and 'Lord of the Slippy' (this is a compliment to the wearer; all is revealed in chapter 23!)
The clap, part 2.
My grandparents are wearing 'They don't call it the witching hour for nothing' (er, sorry, you can't actually see it) and 'troublemaker'.And now I'm off to London on a working holiday! I'll be keeping track of t-shirt contest entries, and will draw a name at random at the end of November. Thanks in advance for your interest, and I hope you enjoy my chat with Jim--and my novel too of course!
Prim Improper: a Q&A with Deirdre Sullivan
Thanks to my time in the writing program at NUI Galway I have a lot of crazy-talented writer friends, one of whom is Galway native Deirdre Sullivan. Dee has written a fantastic novel for young teens called Prim Improper, which was published by Little Island in September.After losing her mother in a car accident, thirteen-year-old Primrose Leary has to move in with her father, Fintan, who (so it seems to Prim) cares more for his moustache and his money than he does his only child. Prim writes in her journal of grieving for her mother, learning to live with a father with whom she has nothing in common, and navigating all the typical trouble with boys, friends, and schoolwork. She's wicked smart, using witty wordplay (don't you LOVE the title?) and a vocabulary that puts most grown-ups to shame. Her voice feels entirely authentic, with all those things you'd expect a bright young girl to write in her diary--like when she calls a hot chocolate a 'gooey cup of yum' or a classmate she dislikes 'a rancid scab of a boy.'Prim's mother's death is treated sensitively but not overly sentimentally, and about her relationship with Fintan in particular there are moments of heart-rending insight--even if our young narrator isn't fully aware of it. For instance, on wanting her father to come out and tell her if he's gotten engaged to his girlfriend:'It would make me feel like I was an important part of his life, as opposed to just this thing he had to feed and clothe because her previous owner had passed away and if he didn't do the right thing people would think badly of him.' (page 196)
Prim Improper is one of those books you feel smarter for having read, and goodness knows a pre-teen girl can never have too many of those on her shelf. The book isn't widely available in the U.S. (though you can order it on Amazon), so I thought I'd give a few autographed copies away so that some American readers can enjoy this marvelous novel. But first, a Q&A with my dear friend the author:Reading a book when you know the author is a peculiar pleasure for those moments of recognition. The writer puts pieces of herself into her story even when those pieces aren't overtly autobiographical--Prim's fondness for wee furry creatures, for instance, although your pets are guinea pigs and hers is a rat. And like you, she's witty and articulate, a quick and acerbic observer of human nature. Just how much does Primrose Leary resemble your thirteen-year-old self? Did you ever go back and read your old journals?I felt the same way when I read Petty Magic--it was delightful to see the little pieces of Camille woven into the fabric of the novel!! Primrose is a lot more articulate and confident in her identity that I was when I was thirteen. At the launch, my fifteen year old cousin came up to me and said that I'd really captured the way she had thought when she was thirteen and that of course, two years on, she was a good deal more mature. I smiled and nodded and thought 'oh dear'--because a lot of Prim is the way I actually think now, not so much the content, but the structure of it and the way of expressing it, if that makes any sense. About halfway through the novel, I read back over some of my old diaries from secondary school, to see what I could find. What I found was pretty cringe inducing. At thirteen, I mainly used my diary to vent and obsess over various boy-bands. And write terrible poetry about being misunderstood and not having a boyfriend.I met you through your boyfriend, Diarmuid, who is a scriptwriter. You two may be writing in very different genres, but I still think it's worth asking if you ever influence one another's work. Do you read each other's early drafts?This summer was lovely, because we spent it holed up in a bungalow in Cork, writing every day. I'd read mine to him as soon as it's written and ask his advice about what works and what doesn't, but I'm not allowed to read his until he thinks they're ready, which is hardly ever! We both use humor in our writing, but he is far more of a craftsman than I am--he fine-tunes and tweaks his work almost constantly. I bang it out and only start to doctor it when I'm finished the whole thing. Or stuck on a particular bit.Prim portrays her father, Fintan, as a 'Celtic Tiger' fat cat. Is he based on any real-life fat cat in particular?No, but my Dad in real life does have a FABULOUS moustache, and he loves the first line of the book because he considers it an homage to his facial hair.You're a primary school teacher, so of course your students are quite a bit younger than Prim, but I'm sure they inspire you on a regular basis...?They do indeed. A boy in my T.P. class gave me a gift of a diary that I wrote the first draft of Prim in. I also stole the names Ella and Syzmon from children I taught. Being a teacher is a strange and lovely thing, you are confronted on a daily basis with a plethora of personalities, all with their own strengths and concerns. And you have to teach them how to spell and do sums and co-exist peacefully from 8.50-14.30. It can exhausting but is also very inspiring and rewarding.Judging from photos of your launch and reading at the Galway City Library, it looks like you were able to connect with a fair number of younger readers. Have you had a chance yet to talk about Prim Improper with girls who've read it?Yes, but only briefly--the launch was packed with people, so I didn't have time to chat to anyone properly!! The girls in sixth class seemed to like it, which is great because while I was writing it I had a sixth class girl in mind as the reader I was kind of going for. (In the first draft, Prim was in her final year of primary school). I'm dying to have a sit-down chat with some girls who have read it, I'd love to discuss how it tallied with their own experiences of being a teenage (or almost) girl.Tell me about where and how you write. Do you have any particular rituals (besides, I suspect, copious amounts of tea)?You're right about the tea. I read a lot when I'm writing--teen fiction and whatever else takes my fancy when I'm typing away and crime fiction when I'm having trouble plotting. Detective stories are normally so tightly structured and have that whole beginning, middle and end thing that I wish I found easier--beginnings and middles are fine for me but endings are tougher. I'm trying to finish another book at the moment and I'm finding it very hard to let go of the characters. Also, I like to read what I've written to Diarmuid at the end of the day--possibly while drinking tea.You are to spend the rest of your days on an uncharted island in the South Pacific, and can bringonly five books. Which ones, and why?Can I cheat and bring a few Norton Anthologies? I read a LOT, so that would probably be the way I'd go. But in case I'm not allowed--
1. The collected Short Stories of Angela Carter--because The Bloody Chamber is my favourite book ever but it's very small so I'd like all the other ones as well please.2. The Woman Who Gave Birth to Rabbits by Emma Donoghue because reading it makes me want to make up stories.3. War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy because Dad bought it for me for my twelfth birthday and it is still languishing in my to-read pile.4. Either Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day by Winnifred Watson or Miss Buncle's Book by D.E Stevenson. They are both charming and escapist reads--like dipping into a big hug.5. Another Either/or answer!! Hans Christian Andersen or Oscar Wilde's Fairy Tales because they are so beautiful and sad.
I think I'd be happy out with those five.What's next? Are you working on another novel now?I am indeed--grappling with the ending at the moment, actually. This time it's about a fifteen year old girl named Ampersand, who is a middle child and isn't very happy about it.###Thanks a million, Dee! So like I said, there are three (individually autographed!) copies up for grabs. To enter the giveaway, all you have to do is leave a comment recommending one of your favorite middle grade/young adult novels, and RTs get an extra entry. Entries accepted until the end of the weekend, and in the meantime you can follow Deirdre on Twitter at @propermiss and check out her blog!###Edit, November 7th: Closing the giveaway with five entries. I'm going to pick up two more books while I'm in Ireland next month, so everyone's a winner! Thank you so much for your interest and enthusiasm, Amanda, Cara, Christie, Kate, and Paré!
Strumbox jam!
I finally got around to uploading that other launch party video I mentioned—here Paul and Nick, my dear friends from Harmony Homestead, are treating us to some live music. Paul is playing a strumbox made by our friend Jim (from a cigar box--awesome, right?), and...er...I can't remember which instrument Nick is playing. I can't get a good look at it to jog my memory. Anyway, the jam session made the night all the more special for me, and I hope you enjoy this little snippet.(The other party video is here—I'm reading from a random page.)
Midwest, part 1
I never anticipated that the best part of publishing a book wouldn't be the good reviews, readings, or invitations to literary festivals. The best part isn't seeing a gorgeous book with your name on it on the new fiction shelf at Borders (although that's pretty trippy too).No, the really trippy part is this: making new friends, and eventually counting them among my dearest, all because I wrote a book and somebody decided to publish it.
In August 2008 Maggie left a comment telling me how much she enjoyed Mary Modern, and when I visited her blog I found the best review I've ever gotten. Maggie doesn't usually write about books on her blog, but this time she made an exception. She even took the book into the bathroom with her, and there can be no greater compliment than that.
So we emailed back and forth a bit, and then lost touch until last summer. Thanks to Twitter, I reconnected with Maggie and 'met' Sarah, the friend who'd recommended my novel in the first place. I got to meet Maggie and her family back in August when they came to New York on vacation, but this trip to Wisconsin last week was the first time I met Sarah in real life. She is so good at expressing herself online that I kept having to remind myself that we hadn't ever had a conversation in person before. (You know how it is if you've ever met an internet acquaintance in real life--they're never quite how you pictured them, not necessarily looks-wise, but the way they speak and carry themselves and whatnot. Not Sarah!)
I also wondered how or if we ever could have met in a time before the internet. I like to think that if we'd lived on the far end of the twentieth century we would have written each other letters, but obviously it wouldn't have been the same--it would have taken us months to iron out a visit by mail, if we'd ever found the opportunity to meet at all, and our (sometimes rapid-fire) email correspondence is probably equivalent, wordcount-wise, to a pen-pal friendship over the course of ten years. Every time their names pop up in my inbox I feel amazed and grateful all over again.
We knit and talked about books and writing and had a sleepover and watched classic 80s movies (I fell asleep midway through The Neverending Story—haha!—but The Goonies was every bit as awesome as I remembered it), and I loved spending time with Maggie's daughters. We fondled beautiful yarns at The Sow's Ear and had delicious fancy coffees afterwards. (The Sow's Ear is far and away the coolest yarn shop I've ever been to--huge selection of great yarns and really nice staff, like Brooklyn General, but with coffee and treats!)
Locally produced sock yarn from Sun Valley Fibers.
And before I left Maggie and I went to Madison to sample the amazing local cheeses at Fromagination (she knows a lot about Wisconsin artisanal cheeses, having recently published an article on the subject) and she took me on a tour of UW Madison. I got to see Sarah and her husband Matt one more time for pizza and hot chocolate before I left; and then the next day I hopped on a bus to Minneapolis to visit Jill, and I also did a really fun reading at Common Good Books. Will blog about that next time.
(Edit, 2013: It's strange to be reformatting this entry for my new blog, having very happily not eaten cheese in 2 1/2 years. I won't knowingly eat it again, and for some very good reasons why, read my post on cheese addiction.)
Schloss Wernigerode
Folks seem to enjoy behind-the-scenes book stuff (like my Mary Modern chicken scratchings from 2004...and chicken scratchings, part 2), so I thought I'd post this video I took in September 2008 as part of my Germany research. You will recognize this place from chapter 25...
Little Witch
I was going to save this for the 31st, but it's Kate's birthday today. Happy Birthday, Snookie!
Halloween, 1984. Kate is two weeks old. (Who knows why the long face...maybe I was thinking I'd have to split my candy with her.)
Page 134
Here's one of the videos I mentioned yesterday. Towards the end of the party I thanked everyone for coming and made a toast to my grandparents, and Paul asked if I could do a short reading. I said it had to be rated G (because my grandparents and two three-year-olds were in attendance), which is a bit tricky because the book is, y'know, kind of bawdy in a lot of places, and Kelly suggested a passage from the holiday covention chapter. I was fumbling around trying to find the right part when John said 'Read a random page! Page 134!' So that's what I did, and Kate (wonderful little sis that she is) filmed me on Elliot's iPhone. I'm reading WAY too fast--really have to work on that.This passage takes place at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Eve (who is 149 but has made herself a girl again) and her much-MUCH-younger boyfriend, Justin, are being followed (and messed with) by Eve's (also elderly) sister Morven and her friend Elsie. The video starts mid-passage, so here's the beginning:
We pause for a spell in the Greek Sculpture Court, the benches around the marble monuments crowded with harried young parents and old folks watching the world go by. A man in a tweed jacket sketches a family grave stele, and passersby gaze over his shoulder with murmurs of admiration.Justin gasps. "It's those little old ladies again!" I glance round and he says, "Over there. No, don't look. You'll encourage them."I can't help laughing out loud. Morven's gaze snaps to me in an instant, and she grins like the Cheshire cat.Meanwhile Elsie is gazing up at a statue of Apollo. "What's this, then?" she says loudly, jabbing a gnarled finger at a strategically placed fig leaf...
A Bowl of Sweet Cream
(Nick called me on Friday to make plans, I asked him how he was, and he said 'My life is just a bowl of sweet cream right now.')
Couldn't resist.
What a marvelous weekend!
With Kate and SJ at the start of the night. Yes, she's actually wearing a shirt that says 'I may not be all that picky, but I draw the line at the clap.'[Edit, 2013: the CafePress shop is no longer open. Maybe someday I'll bring the t-shirts back! In the meantime, all links have been removed.]
The Harmony Homestead gang enjoying their boozy lollipops.
The Clap, take 2.
I think Elliot felt a little weird, but he was a sport and wore it all night. Being Lord of the Slippy isn't as dodgy as it sounds, honest!...Okay, maybe it is. But it's still a compliment.I'll post more pics and video later this week (jam session with strumbox! reading of a page at random!) In the meantime, Neilochka's party recap is cracking me up.p.s.--There isn't any mark-up on these t-shirts; I made them up for fun, and admittedly for a bit of free advertising.
The Passage Assassin
Diarmuid took me on a day trip through Connemara for my birthday in November 2006. Not bad for a disposable camera. And yes, this is a lake, not the sea, but you get the idea. While my editor and I were working through Petty Magic revisions, a few times she said, 'we have to cut this. I have a knack for cutting authors' favorite passages; call me the passage assassin.' She said this apologetically, as if it wasn't her job to ferret out the precious bits that don't really belong.All writers know this sometimes: we're so proud of having written that line or paragraph that we resist removing it even though it's not really working in the story. In the case of this passage, it fit thematically but slowed the narrative momentum. You don't have to read Petty Magic first; it's quite self-contained.
Mick the drummer tells the last story, which is about what happens to Connemara fishermen when they die. There is a pub on an island in the middle of the Atlantic, he says, where everyone comes and goes by curragh. To get to the pub you walk up a small grassy hill in the moonlight, and on the way up you'll pass an overturned curragh under a tarpaulin and resting on cinderblocks, and people say that was the very boat that brought St. Brendan the Navigator to the New World. The pub, which is not unlike the pub we're in now--though of course Murty Coyne's isn't situated on its own island--always has enough seats at the bar, and the turf-fire's always burning bright, and the whole place thrums with the lively conversations of old friends reunited. The night seems endless, but then again so's the flow of Guinness, and the only other thing that passes between you and the bartender is a handshake. You can stay as long as you like, says Mick, though you do get a certain feeling when it's time to be heading off. When it's time, you say all your last goodbyes, walk down the hill, and untie your curragh, sailing away from the sunrise just as St. Brendan once did.
I really liked this part, but she was right to cut it.
Thank You
Last night felt like Christmas Eve--I kept waking up in the wee hours wondering if it was morning yet. THE BOOK IS OUT!I like long effusive acknowledg- ments pages. Reading somebody else's makes me think I would like that author if I ever met them, and I end up writing long effusive acknowledgments pages because there are a lot of people who helped me get where I am (i.e., published) and not to thank them on paper is to be a stuck-up jerk. (Wow, that came off really judgmental, didn't it? But tell me you don't think the same thing when the only ones the author thanks are the editor, agent, Yaddo and MacDowell.)The thing is, though, you always end up leaving somebody out by mistake. This time I'd asked my editor to send me a list of behind-the-sceners (copyeditor, particularly enthusiastic sales reps, et al.)--which is what we'd done last time, when Sally was my editor--but then Sarah (editor #2) left for Simon & Schuster, and I forgot to follow up on that list. So I'm going to share some names of people who don't appear on my acknowledgments page (the ones I know of, anyway) but deserve huge thanks for their hard work and support.
- Christine Kopprasch, my new editor, who has been great about picking up dropped balls.
- Annsley Rosner, Anna Mintz, Kira Walton, Sarah Breivogel, and all the other savvy publicity and marketing gurus at Crown.
- Dan Rembert for being the best cover designer EVER.
- Elliot Seibert, mi hermanito, for designing my original website and tweaking some graphics so I could make up nifty t-shirts (I haven't told you much about them yet because I still need to get some modeled shots! coming soon).
- David Galli for designing my brand-new blog. Didn't he do a fabulous job?
- Marian Schembari for kicking my took into gear with the social media shtuff.
- Maggie and Sarah for being the very best readers and friends I could possibly ask for. (By the way, my first Q&A is up now at Sarah's blog!)
And if you had a hand in putting my book together and I've neglected to thank you, I hope you'll accept my apology. Thank you, thank you, thank you.To everyone else: I hope you have as much fun reading Petty Magic as much as I did writing it!
Happy Pub Day Eve
Petty Magic comes out tomorrow, and of course I've been thinking about all the fun Mary Modern stuff from summer '07 and how much I have to look forward to again.
Kate & Elliot after the reading at Rocky Sullivan's.
My favorite picture taken at the launch party. My grandfather was being goofy, so that's what we're laughing at.
And after the party we (Ailbhe, Cóilín, Michael and me) had way too much fun at Marie's Crisis. Like there's any such thing...
Great Book #94: The Time Machine
Sometimes a book sits unread on your shelf and for the longest time you don't feel any desire to pick it up. Then finally something compels you to, you read it and literally love it to pieces (you should see my copy now), and then you could kick yourself for taking so long.That's how I feel about H.G. Wells--which might surprise you if you've read Mary Modern, because I can see how you'd think he's been an influence, but no, not until now. I knew he was a visionary--Paré tells me he even predicted the internet--but I never expected he could write such marvelous prose:
All the old constellations had gone from the sky, however: that slow movement which is imperceptible in a hundred human lifetimes, had long since rearranged them in unfamiliar groupings. But the Milky Way, it seemed to me, was still the same tattered streamer of star dust as of yore. Southward (as I judged it) was a very bright red star that was new to me: it was even more splendid than our own green Sirius. And amid all these scintillating points of light one bright planet shone kindly and steadily like the face of an old friend.
This tattered old copy of The Time Machine also includes three short stories: "The Empire of the Ants," "The Man Who Could Work Miracles," and "The Country of the Blind" (Gutenberg link to story collection here)--the last of which is now one of my favorite short stories of all time. It is absolutely brilliant. Read it NOW.
Ugly Duckling Contest!
Over the summer I found this photograph of yours truly hiding creased, dust-bunnied, and frameless in a cabinet full of random junk at my grandfather's house.Friends, there is no delicate way to say this: I was fug. My grandmother loved me better than anybody, and even she didn't want this one on the wall.I have been taking this picture out every so often to laugh at it, and it gave me an idea for another contest: send me the worst baby/kiddie/school photo you have of yourself, and the awkwardest child of the lot wins a Petty Magic t-shirt (winner's choice of slogan, style, and size, naturally) along with a copy of Mary Modern. You can enter by either emailing me the photo (mealeyATgmaildotcom) or posting a link in the comments. The only stipulation is that you have to let me post your picture--your own picture only, please; there'll be no making fun of anyone unless they're laughing too--because we're all going to vote on this. Entries will be accepted for the next week or two.P.S. Happy Birthday, Ma. Bwahahahahaha.